Now what Lady Hartledon had really thought was that the visitor was Mr. Carr; her husband was going to steal a quiet half-hour with him; and Hedges was in the plot.  She had not lived with Hartledon the best part of a year without learning that Hedges was devoted heart and soul to his master.

She opened the library-door.  Her husband’s back was towards her; and facing him, his arms raised as if in anger or remonstrance, was the same stranger who had caused some commotion in the other house.  She knew him in a moment:  there he was, with his staid face, his black clothes, and his white neckcloth, looking so like a clergyman.  Lord Hartledon turned his head.

“I am engaged, Maude; you can’t come in,” he peremptorily said; and closed the door upon her.

She went slowly up the stairs again, not choosing to meet the butler’s eyes, past the drawing-rooms, and up to her own.  The sight of the stranger, coupled with her husband’s signs of emotion, had renewed all her old suspicions, she knew not, she never had known, of what.  Jumping to the conclusion that those letters must be in some way connected with the mystery, perhaps an advent of the visit, it set her thinking, and rebellion arose in her heart.

“I wonder if he put them in the ebony cabinet?” she exclaimed.  “I have a key that will fit that.”

Yes, she had a key to fit it.  A few weeks before, Lord Hartledon mislaid his keys; he wanted something out of this cabinet, in which he did not, as a rule, keep anything of consequence, and tried hers.  One was found to unlock it, and he jokingly told her she had a key to his treasures.  But himself strictly honourable, he could not suspect dishonour in another; and Lord Hartledon supposed it simply impossible that she should attempt to open it of her own accord.

They were of different natures; and they had been reared in different schools.  Poor Maude Kirton had learnt to be anything but scrupulous, and really thought it a very slight thing she was about to do, almost justifiable under the circumstances.  Almost, if not quite.  Nevertheless she would not have liked to be caught at it.

She took her bunch of keys and went into her husband’s dressing-room, which opened from their bedroom:  but she went on tip-toe, as one who knows she is doing wrong.  It took some little time to try the keys, for there were several on the ring, and she did not know the right one:  but the lid flew open at last, and disclosed the two letters lying there.

She snatched at one, either that came first, and opened it.  It happened to be the one from Mr. Carr, and she began to read it, her heart beating.

  “Dear Hartledon,